1989 - Bellarke
by the.ktgrace
Summary: A series of AU Bellarke one-shots, each inspired by a different song from Taylor Swift's album 1989.
1. Style

**Author's Note:**

 **Sometimes, my best inspiration comes from the music I listen to. So I gave myself a challenge: to write a bunch of AU Bellarke one-shots inspired by songs from Taylor Swift's 1989 album.**

 **Here's the first one:**

 **.**

 **Style -**

Clarke stood facing the wall, eyes combing over another painting. She took in the way the pops of brilliant red stood out against a swirling grayscale pattern. In her right hand she held a slender glass of champagne, the golden liquid catching the bright light of the gallery. Something about the blank white walls and the cherry floors felt comforting to Clarke, like the way a bibliophile felt in a library. Clarke loved art.

She had never missed one of the gallery's exhibits since coming to school as a freshman. Clarke was currently pursuing a double major in art and biology. Her mother, hoping Clarke would continue on to medical school, had pushed her into biology. But Clarke's heart had always pointed her towards something creative. When the rigor of her biology coursework set her on edge, it was always art that calmed her back down.

Clarke moved onto another painting, this one showing the view from under leafy green trees looking up. The artist had done a lovely job of capturing the sunlight streaming in through the leaves, and Clarke could practically smell the fresh forest air just by looking at the painting.

That's when she knew he was there.

She felt him before she saw him. Before she spotted his shadow on the white wall, fuzzy and larger than hers. Before she smelled the musky scent of his cologne and shampoo that she recognized all too well.

No, it was the feeling that came first. The way the hair on her neck prickled up, how her stomach felt warm. Somehow, she knew who was standing behind her.

She heard his footsteps as he came closer, to stand beside her on her right. Clarke didn't turn her head, she simply raised her chin.

"I didn't know you were much of an art gallery person," she said, keeping her voice controlled.

"I know you are." His answer was low and brief, and his deep voice tugged at her. She turned, finally looking at him. Granted, he was underdressed, standing there in a white t-shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket. But there was something magnetic about his look, something that grabbed your attention and wouldn't let go. Perhaps it was the confidence her wore, or the aura around him. His dark hair was combed back and his eyes glittered. Clarke was fighting to not look at them. Fighting and losing.

"It's been a while, Bellamy," Clarke said frankly.

"Yeah, I guess it has been."

"What are you doing here, then?"

His lips tightened into a thin line. "I was hoping you'd be here."

"Bellamy, you _knew_ I would be here. I'm at every show."

He glanced around at the walls, "Do you have any art up here?"

Clarke shook her head. "Not this quarter. I've been too busy with my bio work, I haven't had much time to paint."

"Clarke," his eyebrows furrowed, "That's not fair to you. You're really damn good, you know that. Why waste your time on biology then?"

"Because I know what is good for me," Clarke answered, crossing her arms. "Becoming a doctor – that's a good job. A _safe_ job. I have to think about my future realistically. I have to use my head."

"But what is your heart telling you?"

Clarke knew they weren't talking about biology and art anymore. She didn't want to be having this conversation, not here, not like this. She set her champagne glass down on a nearby table. "I think I'm going to head home."

"I'll drive you."

"No, Bellamy, you don't need to. I can catch a bus back to the apartment."

"Clarke, it's pouring out. I'm not going to let you wait for a bus in the rain."

She opened her purse, digging for her bus ticket. "I'll be under a cover."

Bellamy walked past her towards the stairs, spinning his car keys around his finger. His jacket brushed her bare arm as he walked, and Clarke shivered. She followed him down the stairs and towards the front door without thinking.

He pushed open the frosted glass door, and Clarke could hear the rain pounding on the pavement. "I'm parked across the street," he pointed at his old, beat-up car. "Here," he tugged off his jacket and held it over her head.

"I'm fine, really. I won't melt."

"I don't care," he shrugged. "You're too dressed up to get soaked out here."

He was probably right. Clarke was wearing one of her best outfits: an open-backed black dress with a fancy silver necklace. Between the tight little skirt and heels her legs seemed longer than they actually were. She'd even added red lipstick for a classic look. Typically a jeans and sweater girl, Clarke never dressed up. She accepted the jacket begrudgingly, holding it over her head herself.

"Fine," Bellamy grumbled, moving out into the rain. "Just trying to be a gentleman."

He unlocked the car and went to open the door for Clarke, but she brushed past him and grabbed the handle herself. She wasn't giving him the satisfaction of being a gentleman. Not if he would keep playing games. Buckling her seat, Clarke sat in complete silence. Bellamy started the car.

"No headlights?" Clarke asked, confused.

"Need to get them fixed." Bellamy's answer was brief and curt. She knew money was always an issue for him; he was working two jobs as it was to try and get his sister Octavia through school. There wasn't a lot of extra money for repairs.

"Drive carefully," Clarke replied quietly.

They sat in silence for the rest of the car ride. Clarke leaned her head against the cold glass, listening to the rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers. Trying to focus on anything except the handsome man beside her. She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were fixated on the road, jaw tight and eyebrows low.

Bellamy pulled the car in front of Clarke's apartment building and shifted into park. Clarke opened the door and held the jacket over her blond head, shielding the rain as she crossed to the front door. _God, the jacket even smells like him_ , she groaned internally and handed it back to him. He heard him lock the car and follow her as she entered the hallway. Clarke hoped she could lose him at the stairs, but climbed behind her.

Reaching the fourth floor, Clarke turned down the tight hall and stood outside her doorstep. She remembered that her roommate Raven was spending the weekend with some friends for a concert, so she had the place to herself. Still, she felt uncomfortable at her own door. "Thanks for driving me home, then."

"Can I come in?"

 _Dammit, I knew you would ask that_ , Clarke thought to herself. Her mind was telling her _no_ firmly, but she couldn't find the words to say it. Instead, she simply unlocked the door and left it open for him to follow.

Clarke kicked off her heels and dropped her purse by the door. Behind her, Bellamy took of his jacket and hung it on a hook on the wall like it naturally belonged there. Clarke fumbled for the lightswitch, finally flipping it and illuminating the small apartment.

It wasn't much at all. It was a studio apartment, cramped with mismatched furniture and personal belongings. You could distinctly see both Clarke and Raven's personalities throughout the place. Raven was a pack-rat, holding onto everything and finding uses for the strangest objects. A mechanical-engineering major, Raven liked to recycle old boxes and cans and metal scraps to build various structures around the apartment. Clarke, who preferred to keep things neat, kept her creative visions to the dozens of paintings on the walls. And leaning against the walls. And lying in stacks of canvas next to the bookshelf.

"Want something to drink?" Clarke asked, a polite formality. She stuck her head in the fridge, "I think we're out of beer though. I guess Raven took the last of it with her. I've got some Coke though, or-"

"Maybe less drinking and more talking," Bellamy answered in a low growl.

Clarke's head snapped up. "What if I don't want to talk?"

"God dammit, Clarke, you didn't speak the entire car ride. I can't get anything from you."

"Maybe I just don't want to hear what you have to say." Clarke busied herself by opening a can of Coke – she survived off of caffeine – and taking a swig.

"Why not?"

"Just because I don't see you anymore doesn't mean I don't hear about you, Bell." She hated how she'd slipped up and called him by his shorter nickname. "Come on. Roma... Trina… Echo…? The list goes on. I can't even keep up, which one are you technically _with_ now? Or all three at the same time?"

"Clarke," he growled, his face growing angry.

"Really, we both know it's true. It's always been like that."

"And what do I know about how _you_ spend your time, then?"

Clarke set her can down with a _thud_. "You don't, but I can tell you that I don't sleep around. I don't play with people like they're toys and put them away when I get bored."

"I never tried to play with you, Clarke," he approached her slowly, eyes intense. "You should know that."

"You _liar_ ," Clarke said, her voice cracking on the last word. "You don't mean that. You never meant that." She fought not to look at his enormous dark eyes, or the way the rain had made his slicked hair fall back into natural loose curls. "I - I can't be the kind of girl you want me to be, Bellamy. I can't be that girl that you keep running to when you feel like it. I'm not going to sit here and wait for you to come back each time, thinking that this time you'll actually stay. I _can't_."

"Hey," he gently reached out for her arm, but Clarke pushed him away, like the slightest touch from him would break her.

"Don't. You - you aren't good for me. I can't be what you want, and I shouldn't be around you."

"Then why did you let me in?"

There is was, the million dollar question. _Why did I talk to him at the gallery? Why did I let him drive me home? Why is he standing in my apartment now, looking so much like he belongs here?_

"I don't know," Clarke struggled to keep her voice from growing thick. She was failing.

"Clarke, listen to me for just one minute," he said, speaking firmly. He grabbed her arms as if to steady her, and he stared at her straight in the eyes. No looking away now.

"Clarke, everyone is telling you what to do. They always are, we both know that. Your mother, your teachers, your friends. Everyone is telling you what to do and who to be. Sometimes, you've got to tune them out and listen to yourself.

"I know I'm not the safe choice, or the smart choice. Hell, I'm not even the _good_ choice by anyone's standards. I know I can be a complete ass, you've told me that a thousand times. But… I can't stop thinking about you, Clarke. I want to be with you, near you, to see you smile and laugh and light up my world.

"And, damn, maybe that's why we keep falling in this vicious cycle. Because, I care about you too much, Clarke, and it scares me. I keep thinking that if I leave you I can conquer that fear, regain control of my own life. But I can't stop thinking about you."

Clarke's brain moved at half-speed, struggling to process the words Bellamy had poured out to her. Bellamy _never_ opened himself up to anyone, and Clarke could see the physical pain on his face from doing so. He watched her like she was his entire world. _I've been there too a few times_.

"Please say something, Clarke."

Her heart felt like it was breaking for the hundredth time. Every time he came back, he would leave. Every time he wouldn't stay. And Clarke would always fall for it. And yet, she always fell back to him, watching them go round and round each time.

 _Screw it._

Clarke rose up on her toes and pressed her lips softly to Bellamy's. The moment they touched, it was like something clicked in her head. Her heart was beating in her ears as she pulled away slowly, baring her soul in her blue eyes as she stared into his.

"Talking's overrated anyway," Bellamy grumbled in a deep whisper, grabbing her face and pulling her back into him. Their lips crashed together and Clarke's legs felt weak. She threw her arms up onto his shoulders, and his strong arm held her waist. His fingers caressed her cheek with a shaking hand, moving upwards to slide into her hair.

Using both arms, Bellamy picked Clarke up and set her down onto the kitchen table. Her legs swung off the floor as she leaned in to his kiss again. He growled in his throat as she dug her fingers into his curly hair, catching the memorable smell of his shampoo. His hands slid up and down her bare back, causing shivers to race up her spine.

When they pulled away, they were both breathless. Bellamy drunk in the passion in Clarke's eyes.

"Bell," she panted, voice soft. "Don't leave."

"I won't," he promised.

His lips rose to match hers, planting repeated kisses on her red pout. She smiled behind each kiss, moving forwards to hop down off the table. Suddenly one arm swung under her leg as another caught her back. He was holding her like a child.

"I've got you, Princess."

She giggled, _giggled_ , as Bellamy carried her from the kitchen towards her bedroom.

* * *

For the first time in a long time, Clarke didn't wake up to the beeping of her alarm. Even on weekends, Clarke tended to set an alarm.

No, instead she woke up to the sunlight trickling in through the blinds. She burrowed her face into her pillow, slowly coming to. She recognized the warmth of another body behind her, feeling the gentle movement of Bellamy's bare chest against her back. Clarke smiled, nestling deeper into his arms. Feeling his breathing change, Clarke rolled over to face him.

Morning always looked good on Bellamy. He opened his eyes blearily, the sunlight picking up the freckles on his face and the tiny scar on his upper lip. He looked younger and healthier, like he had his own glow around him. Clarke was basking in it.

" 'Morning, Princess," he slurred in his sleepy state, blinking his eyes to wake up.

"Good morning," she said, mindlessly twisting a curl of his dark hair around one finger. "It's nice to have you back here."

He gave her that little smirk, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in a way that made her melt. "Just like I never left."

"So don't."

"I couldn't leave you if I wanted to, Clarke."

She looked down, placing her small hand on his chest and feeling the rise and fall beneath her fingertips. "You know I love you, Bell."

"I know that," he answered softly. "You could say it again, though."

Clarke laughed, "I love you, Bellamy Blake."

"And I love you, Clarke Griffin. I think I have for a long time."

Clarke kissed him on the lips, gently and sweetly. It wasn't hot and intense like last night's, but it held just as much genuine emotion in one small kiss. When Clarke pulled away, she placed her face on his chest and nestled in under his chin. Bellamy's hand went to her hair, stroking the strands like they were gold itself.

Clarke had seen them crash down. They would pick themselves back up, tear each other apart, then come back every time. But this time, she knew it was different. The rest of the world would crash, then pull itself back together again, but they would still have each other. _We still have each other._

 _We'd never go out of style._

 _._

 _._

 **And that's the first oneshot. Reviews would be lovely! :)**


	2. Out of the Woods

**I don't own anything from The 100 or Taylor. Just a creative brain and a passion for writing.**

 **Note: Each one-shot (unless otherwise stated) exists in its own new, separate AU (Alternate Universe).**

 **.**

 **Out of the Woods -**

 _Two Months Ago…_

 _It was two days before Christmas Eve. Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" was playing softly from Clarke's iPod, and the entire house smelled like gingerbread. Sharing a blanket, Clarke and Bellamy were pressed against each other on the couch. Clarke's head fit neatly under Bellamy's chin._

 _His hand snaked out from beneath the fleecy blanket to grasp hers, slipping his larger fingers in between each one of hers. Clarke raised their intertwined hands, marveling at how perfectly they fit together._

 _"_ _Like they were made to be together," she murmured softly in a whisper._

 _Bellamy pressed a silent kiss to her forehead, fingers tightening in their locked grip. When he pulled away, his eyes found hers. "Together."_

* * *

Clarke heard the turning of the key in the lock and her front door opening, but she didn't bother to look up. Instead, she kept her eyes glued to her computer screen as Bellamy let himself inside

"Hey," he called out, dropping his phone and keys on the cabinet next to the front door. He walked up to Clarke's chair and bent down to kiss her cheek. She pulled away without looking at him, keeping her eyes on her report.

"Clarke," Bellamy began, hesitant. "What's wrong?"

"Trying to finish this," she muttered under her breath, punching a few keys on the keyboard then pausing. Her mind wasn't focused on her anatomy report, and this was making it very difficult to write the remaining one-thousand words. Her hands hovered over the keys.

"You could at least look at me, you know." Bellamy said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Clarke's eyebrows sunk even lower over her eyes.

"Great," he groaned. "You're mad at me. What this time?"

She sat back in her seat and folded her arms. "You were racing again, last night, weren't you?"

"What?"

"Street racing, Bellamy."

He bit his lip, knowing he was guilty. "Who told you that?"

"Monty. He also said he tried to talk you out of it, but once Murphy got you going you just wouldn't stop." Clarke finally turned to face him. She tried to focus on anything but his dark eyes, instead looking at the dusting of white snowflakes on his hair and sweater.

"Clarke," Bellamy pleaded, "We were just messing around, having some fun-"

"Fun? That _fun_ is dangerous, Bellamy! That _fun_ got Sterling killed!" Clarke heard her own voice rising, but she couldn't help it. After that good kid Sterling was in a nasty racing crash, Clarke had become worried. Bellamy was one proud, often-cocky guy, and he'd been a sucker for the thrill of the race long before the Sterling accident. She had hoped that the tragedy would be enough to keep him from racing. It wasn't.

"There's ice on the streets, Bell. It's snowing out there every other night. What makes you think that this is a good idea?"

"I've done it a thousand times, Clarke," Bellamy insisted. "I know what to do behind the wheel, I'm not an idiot."

Clarke ran her hands through her hair angrily. "God, I wish you'd just use your _head_ sometimes, instead of making such stupid decisions!"

Bellamy's face shifted, showing a dark intensity. "So you _do_ think I'm an idiot? That I don't think? That I'm some sucker dumbass who can't think for himself?"

"No I didn't mean that, I was just -"

"That's exactly what you meant." Bellamy through his hands up, "Because that's you, Clarke. You're the paragon of knowledge and good decisions. And yes, I said _paragon_. And I'm smart enough to know what it means."

"I never said you were stupid, Bellamy. You just make stupid decisions."

"What's the difference? You're always talking down to me, liking I'm too stupid to understand anything on your level. Like you're miles above me. Well, dammit Clarke, I've had enough of that!"

"Why does everything have to turn into an effing confrontation with you, Bellamy? God, I can't even have one conversation with you without you turning on me."

"I've had enough," he turned to snatch up his keys and phone. "I'm out of here."

"Fine!" Clarke called, turned back to face her computer again. "Leave!"

"Don't bother calling, Clarke." He growled, throwing the front door open.

"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out!" She yelled back at him, cheeks red and burning.

The slam of the door sounded like a shattering bomb in both their minds.

* * *

 _Goddammit she is frustrating._

Bellamy gripped the steering wheel like a vise, his knuckles going completely pale. He could still see his breath chill up inside the car, even though he had the heat cranked as high as it could go. The wipers were furiously trying to swat away the snowflakes landing on his windshield. He kept the car at a speedy 50 mph on a winding road.

He shook his head, trying to push the curls out of his eyes. Perhaps it was the sting of the winter air, but he couldn't stop them from watering. _Get it together, you sissy_ , he mentally reprimanded himself. He wouldn't sink that low, to cry in his car alone. Over a girl. Over _Clarke_. _I'm not some character on an effing soap opera, for Christ's sake._

In some part of his mind, he felt that Clarke was right. Weeks ago, she had asked him, _begged_ him not to get back into street racing. _"What if something were to happen to you?"_ She had pleaded, _"Something like Sterling. I couldn't handle that."_

He knew the risks. He'd been racing for years, and he'd seen enough accidents to teach him the lessons. But he'd always escaped them, and he knew he was good at it. Bellamy could read the road and the cars like no one else.

And of course it had been Murphy to get him going, to challenge him. Bellamy wanted to do nothing but walk away, but Murphy wasn't ready for that. He kept pushing at Bellamy.

 _"_ _What, your little girlfriend won't let you race anymore? God, you let that bitch call the shots and walk all over you like that… I thought you were better than that, Bellamy."_

Bellamy had wanted to get up in Murphy's face and start throwing punches, to see what that smug bastard's face would look like with a broken nose. But he figured he'd get more satisfaction out of whooping Murphy's ass in a race.

Behind the wheel before the race, all Bellamy could feel was anger. Anger towards Murphy, for speaking about Clarke that way. But also anger towards Clarke, because some of what Murphy had said rang true. Why was Clarke always telling Bellamy what to do and what not to do? Why did she always take over?

"Because I let her," Bellamy mumbled to himself, seeing his reflection in the dark windshield. "Because it's Clarke, and I can't tell her _no_."

He wasn't paying attention when he spotted the deer in the middle of the road. His brain took a split second too long, switching from thinking about Clarke to forcing his foot onto the brake pedal. Hard.

* * *

Clarke slammed her laptop closed harder than she should have. She pushed away from her mom's kitchen table, grateful that her mother was at a medical conference for the weekend. She'd tried to convince Clarke to come along with her, the proud mother of a brilliant med-student. Clarke had politely declined, planning to spend this weekend catching up on her anatomy report and spending time with Bellamy.

She couldn't stay focused on her report, and her time with Bellamy had been ruined. So far, her weekend was just great.

Clarke leaned forwards, resting her elbows on her knees and head in her hands. Bellamy could be so damn stubborn when he wanted to be. _Why does he have to fight me on everything?_ She asked herself for the hundredth time. _Why can't he see things from my point of view?_

They'd been together for almost five months now, on and off and on again. Raven and Jasper loved to joke that Clarke and Bellamy went back and forth more often than any celebrity couple, and that everyone else needed gossip updates on whether or not they were speaking to each other. _"Honestly,"_ Raven would tease, _"You two could keep People magazine in business with your relationship alone."_ There was some sad truth to that.

Clarke pressed the home button on her phone, watching her wallpaper light up. The picture showed Clarke and Bellamy together, taking a goofy selfie. That night, Clarke had insisted on teaching Bellamy how to dance, so they'd pushed all the living room furniture to one wall so they could have some space. He'd started out with two left feet, but as the night wore on his confidence grew and they couldn't stop laughing with each other. It was one of Clarke's favorite memories together.

 _Together._

But then they'd had another fight a week or so later. Not as bad as this one, but nasty. And that's how they were, always on and off. Each time, Clarke would ask herself, _Are we out of the woods yet? Are we in the clear yet?_

Clarke's cell had just fallen back to black when it started to buzz. She jumped, startled, then answered once she saw the caller ID. It was Octavia. _Weird,_ she wondered, _Isn't Octavia out of the state with Lincoln?_

"Hey, Octavia, what's up?" Clarke asked, waiting for her friend on the other end of the line.

"Clarke? Thank God you picked up." Octavia's voice sounded strange and constrained, full of emotion.

"Aren't you visiting Lincoln? What happened?" _Oh no, please tell me they didn't break up. I don't need to be playing counselor tonight._

"The paramedics - they just called me and - and since I'm out of state I can't do anything - so I knew I needed to call you because he'd want me to call you-"

"Slow down, Octavia," Clarke said, leaning forward in her seat. That "he" Octavia was referring to couldn't have been Lincoln. Clarke's stomach was telling her otherwise.

"Bellamy was in a crash, Clarke."

Clarke's mouth fell open, silent. Her hand started to tremble, and she clutched the phone even tighter.

"They said he was driving fast - and he hit some ice - it looks like he tried to stop the car too quickly - I don't know, maybe he thought he was going to hit something? He braked too soon and spun - spun out on some ice and hit a telephone pole. They took him to the hospital, down at Ark Valley. I - I should be there, with him Clarke. I should be there." Octavia sobbed into the phone.

Clarke struggled to pull words out of the air. "How bad is he?"

"Head injury. That's all they told me."

Clarke stood up too quickly, all of the blood rushing from her brain. She fumbled to find her car keys. "I'm heading to the hospital now. Ark Valley General?"

"Yes. I should be there, I should come home."

"No," Clarke found herself reassuring Octavia. "He's going to be okay, Octavia. I'll let you know how he's doing as soon as I reach him. He's going to be okay."

The truth was: there could be no truth to that statement at all. Bellamy could be okay. But he could also _not_ be.

* * *

Clarke practically flew through the doors into the emergency room. She walked with long, quick strides, marching her way to the front desk.

"I'm looking for Bellamy Blake," Clarke panted, "I was told he was just brought here."

The nurse leisurely typed in the name and glanced at her screen. "Family member?"

"No, but-"

"Mr. Blake is only available for visits from immediate family members, due to our regulations."

"I'm his girlfriend," Clarke said through gritted teeth.

The nurse looked torn between letting Clarke through and sternly telling her to back off. Finally she grabbed a clipboard. "Name?"

"Clarke Griffin."

The nurse raised an eyebrow at that name. Abby Griffin was a well-known surgeon at Ark Valley General, so the name must've rang a bell. "Hallway to your left, room 205."

Clarke gave a hurried "thanks" and took off down the hall. When she reached the marked door, she saw it was shut but not locked. A quick glance through the window showed no doctors or nurses currently inside, so Clarke clutched the handle and gave it a quiet spin.

Clarke was a medical student. She'd studied the human body under all sorts of trauma. She'd seen photographs of severe injuries and autopsies, and she had stomached it all with a thick shell and analytical mind. But the sight of Bellamy Blake in a hospital bed was almost too much for her.

His olive skin was unnaturally pale, and he looked smaller and more fragile hooked up to all of the tubes and wires. Chest exposed, Clarke could see a string of nasty bruises where he must've been thrown against the steering wheel. A red welt along his shoulder burned from the seatbelt, and he wore a snaking line of switches stretching from the center of his forehead down his left temple. Clarke counted twenty.

Clarke's steps were slow and hesitant as she crossed to his side, like getting too close to him might set his monitors blaring. When Bellamy had left her mother's house, he'd been in a rage that left Clarke angry and scared. Now, she was just scared in every way, and in ways she'd never wanted to be. She knew Bellamy was in stable condition, and if he was already stitched up then his head wound would be manageable. But her whole body still ached with worry.

Clarke pulled up a chair beside the bed and reached for Bellamy's hand. Avoiding the sensors around his finger, Clarke wrapped her fingers in between his, locking their hands together. The gentle touch roused Bellamy.

"Clarke," he said in a raspy low voice.

"Oh Bellamy," she whispered back to him, her voice shaky like a thin pane of glass. "What am I going to do with you?"

Through his bleary, medicated gaze came a look of undeniable affection, like he was pouring all of his heart out through his eyes. A tear spilled from the corner of his blackened left eye, leaking down his freckled cheek and onto the pillow. Then another.

Clarke couldn't hold back. While tears fell from Bellamy's eyes in complete silence, Clarke fell into open sobbing. Her body shook as she fought the tears, but they just kept coming. "You're going to be okay," she repeated, more for herself than for Bellamy. "You're going to be okay."

* * *

The doctors and nurses checked on Bellamy several times throughout the night. They let him sleep, not disturbing him as they reviewed his reports from the monitors. They never questioned the blonde girl fast asleep in a chair next to his bed, head slumped over and hand intertwined in his.

Of course, Clarke hadn't slept well. She woke up over and over again, always checking that Bellamy was still there and breathing. Feeling his quiet pulse through his hand, pressed tightly against hers.

And when he woke up to sunlight leaking through the hospital curtains, he woke up to Clarke's blue eyes gazing back at him, full of worry and relief.

* * *

She drove him home as soon as he'd gotten the approval to leave.

They sat in silence on the drive home, Bellamy closing his eyes to get some light sleep while Clarke focused on the road. Her mind was racing, and she was fighting to keep up. Her brain – typically so rational, so smart – was battling her heart, and she felt like she was being torn to pieces from the inside out.

She pulled into the driveway of the Blake residence: a small, worn-down ranch house with a large front yard. In the springtime, Octavia would devote hours to working in the garden, filling the yard until it overflowed with flowers and bushes. Now, the trees were too bare and spindly, like strange, long-legged monsters.

They both got out of the car and walked to the front porch. Digging for his key, Bellamy unlocked the front door and stepped inside, assuming Clarke would follow. He turned when he realized she was staying out on the porch.

"I'm not coming in," Clarke tried to keep her voice steady.

Bellamy gave her a look that said _I cannot fricking believe this_. "Clarke, come on."

She shook her head. "I - I shouldn't, Bellamy." She took a step backwards, off the porch.

"Why not?"

She tried to find the right words, "I almost lost you, and I nearly fell apart. What if - what if this is just too much? All of this… being with you. What if I can't take it?"

Bellamy stepped down off the porch to stand right in front of her, "Clarke, I'm not going anywhere."

"I'd just - I couldn't handle losing you, okay?" _So maybe it's easier to leave you now than lose you when I'm not ready._ Clarke was starting to cry again, her breathing becoming short and shallow.

Bellamy placed a hand on Clarke's cheek, and one of her teardrops fell alongside his thumb. "Nobody said this was ever going to be easy, Clarke. If that is what you truly want – to leave before you get in any deeper – then I can't stop you. I can only ask you to stay. _Please_."

* * *

 _Three Months Ago…_

 _It was getting late. Norah Jones was crooning off a CD in the distant background, but all there was in the world was Bellamy, and Clarke held onto him like he was everything. They swayed back in forth in a slow-moving dance. Clarke's head rested on his chest, listening to a steady heartbeat that seemed to match her own._

 _"_ _I don't think I've ever been in love before." Clarke said, mostly to herself._

 _"_ _You don't think?" Bellamy asked. "I'm pretty sure you would know if you were in love."_

 _"_ _How?"_

 _His mouth crinkled for a second while he thought, exposing his little dimples. "Well, love takes a lot of things and puts them in a new perspective. A new way of looking at life. You care about a person, but so much that you put them above other things, or even yourself. When they're not around, you think about the ways they've made you smile, and it brightens your day. Even the thought of the person you love can change everything."_

 _She spoke very slowly, "I think I'm falling in love."_

 _Bellamy gave a winning grin at Clarke, "Then you're long gone by now."_

* * *

" _Please_."

Clarke felt like her ears were ringing. All around her, the snow made the landscape too white and bright, and it hurt her eyes. She took a breath. She counted the stitches on Bellamy's head (twenty). She watched the way the trees cast shadows like monsters. Another breath.

The whole world seemed to be holding its breath for her. And maybe the whole world was, because she realized her world was standing in front of her, with begging brown eyes and twenty stitches across his forehead.

And it all made sense.

Clarke fell into Bellamy's arms, shaking against his body. He held her tight, being the comfort and the rock she needed. _I couldn't leave you if I tried._

And he was right. None of this would be easy, and Clarke knew that. They were difficult people. Sometimes, the right two difficult people find each other, and love happens. And it would be messy. And tricky. And downright difficult.

They were built to fall apart.

And fall back together.

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 **Reviews bring me inspiration! I'd love to hear what you think about these stories :)**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	3. Welcome to New York

**Back from hiatus - happy to be writing again! I missed that**

* * *

In Clarke's head, she knew exactly how this moment would play out: she'd glide up the escalator at Grand Central Station with her suitcase in hand, Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" blasting through her earbuds. She would stroll out the front doors, breathing in the April air and feeling the uninhibited sense of possibility oozing through her skin. That's how she'd been imagining her arrival in New York City.

That wasn't at all how it actually played out.

Even though it was late in the afternoon, the station was crawling with people, and Clarke had to elbow her way up a flooded set of stairs. Her suitcase clunked along behind her, awkward and unwieldy, and her phone was down to two-percent of its precious battery life. Instead, she listened to the less-than-polite muttering of the crowd around her and a hundred footsteps on the lacquered floors. When Clarke finally made it outside, her first inhale brought a strong whiff of car exhaust. She tugged her cargo jacket tighter around her shoulders, it was colder than she'd expected.

 _Nothing_ was really how she'd expected.

Clarke set her suitcase on the ground and precariously balanced her other bags on top of it, freeing a hand to hail for a taxi. She blew wisps of her blonde hair from her face. Now the wind was starting to pick up, and yup, she was definitely cold. After her ninth unsuccessful attempt at getting a driver's attention, and third taxi that had been rudely intercepted by some harried-looking businessman, Clarke gave up and, in a huff, marched down the street towards the nearest subway entrance.

Inside the tunnel, Clarke paid for her ticket and slipped through the turnstiles, pulling a city map from a plastic holder on the wall. She collapsed onto one of the uncomfortable tile benches, eyes scanning the unfolded map for the familiar street intersection. When she spotted it, she dragged her finger across the page, counting out the number of subway stops away she was… eight. _Of course,_ she rolled her eyes. _Didn't look this complicated on Google Maps._ From the darker end of the tunnel a small light grew, bringing with it the rushing sound of the approaching subway car. As it slid to a halt, Clarke gathered her things and hurried on.

For this first time so far, something went according to how she'd envisioned it: the subway ride was just as cramped and uncomfortable as she'd imagined. It wasn't necessarily bad, and she had to admit her heart raced a little each time she felt the train speed up. Because this was New York. This was the experience she'd been looking for, and she finally felt like she'd landed in the place she'd expected. A place where she could start over.

She could move on, from her complicated family situation. From her ill-fitting job. From the memory of Lexa, and the months of grieving that followed. She could relocate to a city that was so overwhelming, so jarring, that she'd have no choice but completely start over.

When her legs started to feel tingly, and her fingers sore from clutching the metal bar so tightly, Clarke heard the automated voice over the loudspeaker announcing her stop. Waiting for the sliding doors to open, Clarke could feel butterflies rumbling her stomach. This was it. She hopped off the train and ascended up the escalator, which dumped her out right in the middle of her street.

 _Finally, something's going my way._ Clarke wove down the sidewalk, surrounded by businessmen in long coats, wide-eyed tourists with oversized cameras, street vendors with their stuffed carts, construction workers and the likes. She passed storefronts with glossy windows and streetlamps plastered with a thousand posters. Even the sidewalks themselves were busy, bespeckled with leaves and gum and odd pieces of trash that told their own story. Clarke followed her path around the corner, eyes combing for the building address she'd memorized.

When she finally spotted the right numbers, they were affixed onto a drab brick building, nothing like the glamorous newer towers with their sparkling glass and steel. Clarke tried to see the positive: it was in a decent location, and it was relatively affordable, and she was in _New York City_ for crying out loud. So she swallowed down her butterflies and her uncertainties and strolled - no, _hobbled,_ given her clunky suitcase - up the front steps.

And when she'd been praying to any deity up above that there was an elevator, naturally there was just a stairwell. And her apartment was on the fourth floor.

Four flights of stairs later, Clarke had missed the step twice, bruised her right leg with her suitcase more times than she could count, and had mentally - and occasionally verbally, under her breath - recited every cuss word she knew. She hauled herself to the top of the stairs and practically flung herself out onto the hallway. "Unit 411," she muttered to herself, passing rows of identical doors. Around a bend in the path, she spotted it at the very end. Unit 411.

"Welcome to day one," Clarke whispered as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She wasn't sure what she expected here. Perhaps her hopes weren't really even that high, but everything was heightened by her eager nerves. The apartment was small and rather barren, with outdated furniture but zero personality. On the far wall the windows looked small, but she supposed that was just because someone had yanked the blinds down across them, keeping out any natural light. Shutting the door behind her, Clarke walked in with hesitant steps, her new reality settling in around her. She put her bags on the floor and slowly sat down on the couch, sinking into the stiff cushions.

 _What have I done?_

All at once, the exhaustion of the day seemed to hit her. She was tired and wanted a nap, but also felt scummy and gross from traveling. Maybe a shower would do, or at least she could wash her face and freshen up. She noticed a door leading into a small room off the bedroom, and assumed it was the bathroom. Like everything else, it was tiny and underwhelming, but at least there was a shower, toilet and a sink. Little miracles.

Her appearance looked as bad as she felt: tired eyes, ruddy complexion, hair spilling out of her braid and flying all over her face. Maybe the lighting or the mirror wasn't flattering, or maybe she _really_ needed some rest. Clarke reached for the sink handles to wash her face.

Nothing happened. She tried turning the handles the other way, but still nothing happened. No water. She tried the handle in the shower, then flushing the toilet. Nothing. By the time she'd checked the kitchen sink, to no avail, she came to the disheartening realization that she had no running water.

"That's just great." She threw her hands up in frustration, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. Who could she call? Her landlord was in Florida until the end of the week, having left her broken directions over a series of emails. She didn't know how to get in contact anyone in charge of the facilities for the building. She could see only one other option.

Taking her key, Clarke left Unit 411 for its neighbor, 412. Gathering herself, she knocked politely at the door and crossed her fingers that _someone_ would be home.

So when the door did open, she let out a big sigh of relief. "Hi," she began. "I just moved into 411, right next to you."

The man who'd answered the door stood several inches taller than her, and though she could only see half of him because of the door, she could tell he was muscular and fit. He had olive skin and freckles, and his dark curly hair matched his dark, unamused eyes. In fact, he didn't look too delighted to be disturbed, and Clarke - realizing it was probably dinnertime - could understand that. "Yeah," was all he said.

"I just… there's no running water in my apartment."

His expression didn't change. "And what exactly am _I_ supposed to do about that?"

Clarke raised her eyebrows. "Well, I figured you might know who to call about it."

"Maybe the landlord?"

"Out of the state for the rest of the week."

"Convenient time to move into an apartment then." He seemed skeptical.

"Want to see my paperwork? I'm not a squatter or something." She was already regretting the choice to ask him for help. "You know what? Never mind. I'm sure Unit 410 will be happy to give me some pointers."

"No one in Unit 410 speaks English very well." He said once Clarke had turned around. "And the guy in 409 is never home on weeknights."

She spun back around, arms folded. Her patience had worn thin. "Then _what_ do you propose I do?"

He finally gave up. "I think I have the facilities contacts written down somewhere, I'll get them for you and you can give them a call."

"Thank you." Clarke made towards his front door but he shut it before she could get close. So she stood. In the hallway. Facing his closed door with wide eyes. _The nerve of that idiot!_

It was only for a few seconds though, before he pulled the door back open, a sheepish look on his face. He mumbled an apology and a halfhearted invitation inside. Awkwardly, Clarke accepted.

"My name's Clarke," she called out as he disappeared into his kitchen. She caught a sliver of him through the doorway, watching him rifle through drawers and stacks of paper. In fact, there was paper everywhere. Piles and mountains and books on every flat surface. It wasn't particularly messy, from what she could see, there were just books everywhere. "Clarke Griffin."

"Bellamy Blake." He said in reply, not looking up from his search. In the kitchen light Clarke got a better look at him, at his hooded features and strong physique. Little details stood out to her, like the way his long curls fell across his forehead, or the curve of his jaw, or how the sleeves of his t-shirt were stretched just a bit too tightly across his sculpted arms. Then she realized what she was doing and caught herself staring, pulling her gaze away before he noticed.

"Here." He crossed to her, holding a wrinkly sticky-note with scrawling numbers written on it. "This is the phone number for the water company. Your unit's been empty for a couple weeks before you moved in, so that's probably why they shut off the water."

"How nice of my landlord to tell them I'm coming." Clarke remarked, folding the note and slipping it into her pocket. "Thank you. I… I have one more favor to ask."

His brows rose.

"Could I use your bathroom to freshen up a little? Just wash up and stuff, no shower or anything." Goodness knows she wasn't about to shower in some stranger's bathroom, even if he was intriguing and very easy on the eyes… "I'll be quick."

There was something about Bellamy's gaze, something about his dark eyes that seemed to cut right into Clarke and really _see_ her. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. But she relieved when he nodded and motioned to the bathroom off the hall.

"Thanks," she said, slipping inside. It was nice to turn the sink knob and actually get water to come out. She washed her hands and face, relaxing a little as the cool water calmed her jumpy nerves. And she couldn't help herself from stealing quick glances at Bellamy's reflection in the mirror as he moved about the kitchen.

 _Dammit, I'm staring again._

* * *

Clarke didn't see Bellamy again until a few days later. She'd spent the rest of the week trying to unpack what she'd brought, and waiting anxiously for the rest of her belongings to finally show up in the mail. Slowly, she began to settle into some pattern, trying to adjust to her new life. So when Thursday evening rolled around and her stomach started to grumble, she followed its orders and set out to find dinner.

Since moving in, Clarke had left her apartment building exactly three times. She still didn't have the slightest idea where things were or how to get to them, and though she wanted to get out and explore the city, it was overwhelming to say the least. As she locked her front door and made for the stairwell, she had zero idea what she wanted to eat or where she could go.

So, perhaps it was good fortune that she noticed Bellamy leaving his unit and heading out towards the stairwell at the same time.

Clarke quickened her strides, tucking her flyaway hair behind her ears before she realized what she was doing. _Why does it matter what my hair looks like anyways? It's just my neighbor._ "Hey," she breathed when falling into step behind him.

He turned around sharply, not having heard her coming. His eyebrows raised, then furrowed. "Clarke?"

"Do you have a minute?"

He looked hesitant, but considering that they were both caught in the stairwell and he couldn't exactly leave her, he shrugged. She took that as a _yes._

"Listen, I haven't exactly made it out too much the last few days," she began babbling, shuffling down the stairs to keep up with his wider strides. "And I was thinking about dinner, but I don't know where to go-"

Bellamy whipped around, face scrunched in confusion. "Are you suggesting that we-"

"No, no," Clarke cut him off. "No, I was just wondering if you knew of any good places to eat. You know, somewhere close and cheap."

"So that's why you're following me." Bellamy smirked, zipping up his dark leather jacket as they left the entryway and exited out onto the street. Clarke blamed her reddened cheeks on the cold, not Bellamy's teasing.

"I'm not following you. You just happened to be leaving around the same time I was."

"Funny coincidence."

"Whatever. Know anywhere to eat?"

He shrugged, gaze out on the busy street in front of them. The sun was starting to set, catching the city between the hazy twilight and the glowing nightlife. Clarke was just beginning to get used to the constant drone of city traffic and distant construction. Standing outside, it buzzed with energy. "There's this little deli around the corner, maybe a few blocks down."

"That's fine. I like walking."

Clarke matched his long strides, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. They walked in silence, but with the noise of the city around them, it was hardly quiet. Bellamy finally spoke as they rounded the corner on the deli.

"So, I guess we are getting dinner together, huh?" He said, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a halfway grin.

"If it's really that big of an issue for you, _Mr. Blake_ ," Clarke said with mock formality, "Then I'll sit in a different booth."

He wrinkled his nose. "Mr. Blake?"

"Well, I wasn't sure if we were on first-name basis yet."

"We share opposite sides of the same wall. We're there." Bellamy pushed open the door to the deli, jingling the overhead bells and holding it open for Clarke. The deli was tiny, with a long counter and four small booths. The walls were plastered with old newspaper pages and vintage posters and faded photographs to the point where Clarke couldn't tell what color the walls were actually painted. She followed Bellamy to the counter where the large menu hung overhead, meals spelled out with old-fashioned letter tiles.

She glanced at him. "What do you suggest I order?"

"Everything's pretty good here," he shrugged. "Just, don't get a salad."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, don't be that person who goes to a deli and orders a salad." He noticed her silence, and added, "Unless, you – umm – like that sort of thing."

Clarke laughed. "Nice save," she said, rolling her eyes before ordering a roast beef sandwich.

Five minutes later they were sitting on the vinyl seats in one of the booths, enormous sandwiches in front of them. Clarke had to admit: this beat her recent dinners of cereal and Poptarts, hands down.

Bellamy finished a sip of his black coffee before asking, "So, what brings a girl like you to the big city all by herself?"

 _Where do I begin?_ "Have you ever had a midlife crisis?"

"I'm pretty sure those don't usually happen for another fifteen, twenty years."

"Whatever." _Details_. "I was stuck in a high-stress job that I hated, I was wallowing in the aftermath of my girlfriend's premature death, I was in the middle of all sorts of convoluted family bullshit… and I just had enough. So I packed it up and came here." It sounded so lame when she said it out loud.

Bellamy nodded slowly. "So, you moved to New York City to escape stress?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But this is a different kind of stress. A better one."

A second chance. A new beginning.

"No, I get it. What was your job before?"

"Emergency-room trauma nurse."

Bellamy whistled, eyes widening. "Talk about stress."

"Yup. It got to the point where it was just… too much. I love helping people, but I hope to do it in a different way." She took a sip from her milkshake. "Maybe working at a smaller clinic in low-income areas, or doing some outreach work."

"I give you a lot of credit, that doesn't sound like easy work at all."

"It pays the bills," she blushes, downplaying it. Clarke changes the subject. "What about you? You're, what, a writer or something?"

Bellamy's brows furrowed in surprise. "Not yet, at least. How did you guess?"

Now Clarke was really blushing. "I remembered the books all over your apartment. The papers and everything."

He combed a hand through his curls, tousling them so they fell messily across his forehead. "Yeah, it's just on the side right now. I'm currently taking some online college classes, and juggling between two and four jobs depending on the time of year. So writing takes a backseat."

"Four jobs? That must be crazy."

He laughed lightly. "It is a lot, but I'm used to it by this point. My sister just moved out to live with her boyfriend, so it's a little trickier to cover the rent without her income, hence the multiple jobs. I'm working on it."

Clarke could imagine that he spent most of his time thinking about work, so she wanted him to think about anything else right now. "What do you like to write about?"

His eyes lit up at the question. "Anything, really. I like historical fiction, especially the classics. Greek and Roman mythology. And mysteries, those were some of my favorites growing up." Clarke nodded, encouraging him to continue. "They're probably the hardest to write though, because you need to plan out all of these little clues and have them add up in the end. Throw in a historical setting and suddenly you're doing research…"

Clarke liked sitting in that booth, fingers clasped around the cool glass of her milkshake cup, listening to her next-door neighbor talk about the books he was writing with something sparkling in his eyes. She liked that a lot, so much that it surprised her.

* * *

As they walked back down the hallway after dinner, Clarke had to remind herself that this was _not_ a date. Nope. When she'd moved here, she strictly told herself that she was _not_ ready to be back in the dating game again. That she needed more time, just in case.

And besides, this was her neighbor. This was the first person she'd really gotten to know in New York City. It would be _ridiculous_ if anything came out of this, really. They were just neighbors, just by chance.

But as they stopped outside their respective doors – really, the doors were only about two feet away from each other – Clarke had a hard time convincing her racing heartbeat that this wasn't a date. Or her warm palms. _You're acting like a child!_

"Thanks for showing me the deli tonight," she said with a small smile.

"Of course. I'm right next door if you need anything." His eyes were soft, so different from when she initially met him on her first day. "And maybe we could… do this again some time?"

Her chest swelled. "I'd like that."

This was _New York City_. It was time to lose the baggage, to take her broken heart and put it away in a drawer for goodness sake. This was a fresh start, and Clarke wasn't going to miss it.

As she reached for her door handle, Clarke heard Bellamy speak up again.

"Oh, and by the way, but I don't think I ever got to tell you before." His smile was wide and friendly. "Welcome to New York."

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 **More oneshots to come! Drop a review if you enjoyed this!**


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